Now and then I get asked to speak on crisis communications, and one of the examples I use for doing it incorrectly is Michael O’Leary, the provocative CEO of Ryanair. You may remember this gentleman as the man who:

Publicly called a woman who forgot her boarding pass an “idiot.”

Told another passenger who demanded a refund, “You’re not getting a refund, so f*** off. We don’t want to hear your sob stories.”

Managed to amuse/annoy (take your pick) both his industry and his company in a single sentence: “The airline industry is full of bull********, liars and drunks, and we excel at all three in Ireland.”

I could go on, but you get the idea. The story I tell about O’Leary involves a reporton the BBC investigative news show “Panorama” about Ryanair’s hidden fees that sometimes driving airfare to a level that rivals larger carriers. O’Leary blasted the report, deriding those involved and—while not completely botching his response—generally throwing a hissy fit. But my colleagues in the PR firm aren’t so sure O’Leary is the loose cannon he appears to be. I admit, too, that I may have to rethink my position—to a point. There’s no denying that O’Leary is entertaining, albeit in that watching-a-train-wreck-happen vein. His latest adventure was a Twitter chat in which he hit on a female questioner, espoused the value of tantric sex, and made this unprompted observation: “Call me genius, Jesus, Superman, or odious little s**t, whatever takes your fancy as long as you fly Ryanair!”That last comment offers us a peek at O'Leary's motivation. His crazy behavior may be more intentional than he would have us believe. He entertains us. If we’re entertained, we’re paying attention. And if we’re paying attention, we’re open to buying what he’s selling. O’Leary isn’t the first person to use offensive acts to get noticed—Miley Cyrus, anyone?—and I can’t deny it works to some degree. But I stop well short of advocating the approach. And that's why I’m troubled when I read comments from PR pros calling O’Leary “refreshing” and “outrageous but harmless.” I think he does long-term harm to the brand; indeed, Ryanair's recent easing of baggage fees is part of a concerted effort to rejuvenate customer relations. The fact is, everyone eventually wearies of the class clown. And when the jokes grow stale, the clown rarely has anything else to offer.

I didn’t expect to be part of this conversation. I suppose no one ever does. Yet there I was, in the TV room at my parents’ home, listening to a hospice caseworker discuss the remainder of my mom’s life in clear, frank prose. Twelve years ago, stage 4 breast cancer threatened my mother’s existence. Through a series of difficult medical treatments and an abundance of prayer, the miracle happened: the cancer was defeated. But as is often the case with this terrible disease, its failure was not permanent. The cancer returned last year and has proven frustratingly resilient. Treatment has been ended as Mom considers her next steps. God has been generous with His miracles in my family’s life; I’m confident His supply hasn’t dwindled. At the same time, I know that life ends for all of us, usually sooner than we wish. How we face that fact, be it for ourselves or for a loved one, has immense importance. As a professional communicator, I was intrigued by the approach of the caseworker. She was kind, empathetic—and brutally honest. My initial reaction was, “Wow, that’s cold!” But almost immediately I realized that anything less than honesty and transparency does a gross disservice to the patient. Evasive platitudes won’t help Mom make the decisions she must make, and they won’t help the family deal with the road that lies ahead. From that conversation, my respect for hospice has grown. Further, there’s a lesson to be learned by public relations and communications leaders. Our first duty—yes, first—must be to the truth. It’s our responsibility to help our audiences and our masters understand, embrace and deal with reality. As most of my colleagues know, I despise the term “spin” because it suggests one can manipulate reality to evade and deceive. Thus a “spin doctor,” in my view, is an expert at lying. And that’s a profession in which I want no part. Of course, rejecting “spin” means accepting that sometimes reality offers no escape, no alternate view to consider. So be it. Our job then becomes helping our clients adapt to that reality in an open, helpful, forward-thinking way. The pain may be real; owning the path forward in an honest, open way is how we deal with it.